


Beyond This Life

by Eowyn315



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Post Season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eowyn315/pseuds/Eowyn315
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When all that's left is grief. Picking up the pieces after Buffy's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Dawn first woke up, she didn’t know where she was.

She was starting to get used to the feeling. It seemed like lately, every time she woke up she was in an unfamiliar place – the RV, that abandoned convenience store, Glory’s apartment.

As she sat up in bed to take in her surroundings, the flare of pain from the matching cuts on her abdomen refreshed her memory. Suddenly, she was conscious of the IV in her arm and the machinery next to her bed that beeped out her steady heartbeat.

The hospital room was sterile-looking, like all hospitals seemed to be. Was there some sort of interior decorating rule that made them all as cold and un-homey as possible? A picture hung across from her bed - sailboats in pale pastels, so as not to disturb the monotony of the off-white walls.

Dawn wrinkled her nose. Someone could be lying here dying and the last thing they’d see would be that washed-out print. How depressing. But then, was there really any appropriate thing to see before you died? What was the last thing Buffy had seen? The portal, or the ground below her, or maybe she just closed her eyes, or –

 _Stop. Don’t think about it._

Dawn continued her inventory of the room. Faded blue and yellow curtains framed a window on the opposite wall, but the angle of her bed only allowed her to see a stretch of gray sky. There was a vase of daisies on a table next to the chair where Tara was curled up into what looked like a horribly uncomfortable position.

Tara had been the first to recover from the shock. Maybe because of her practicality, or her mothering instinct, or the simple fact that she wasn’t as close to Buffy as the others were, but she was the first to notice when Dawn made her way down from the platform, dazed, her hands pressed against her still-bleeding wounds. They’d all been standing there staring at where Buffy’s body lay, trying to comprehend the awfulness of it, when Tara snapped them out of it by saying, “She needs a doctor.”

It took them a moment to realize she meant Dawn.

Half operating on autopilot, Xander said that Anya probably should get checked out, too. He was still carrying her, but his mind was so scattered that the weight of her in his arms barely even registered.

It was at that point that Giles took charge again, visibly shifting from a parent who’d lost a child to the Watcher who’d lost a Slayer – professional, detached, British. He dispatched them all to the hospital, and when they asked about Buffy, he said only, “I’ll take care of it.”

“How are you feeling, Dawnie?” Tara was awake now, and bending towards Dawn’s bed.

“Okay, I guess,” Dawn replied. “It hurts a little bit.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Dawn nodded. “Buffy jumped. Instead of me.” She saw Tara sigh, and she wasn’t sure if Tara was relieved she didn’t have to deliver the news, or saddened by the reminder of Buffy’s death. Probably a little of both.

“What about the others?”

“Anya’s in the hospital, too,” said Tara. “She had a concussion and a couple broken ribs, but she’ll be fine. Xander’s with her now.” She stroked Dawn’s hair. “Giles is at home… making arrangements.”

“Willow?”

“She went to L.A.”

“To tell Angel?”

Tara nodded. They’d tried calling but no one picked up at Angel Investigations. Willow was bent on driving down there, and Tara suspected that this was her way of coping. Willow needed a task, she needed to be _doing something_ , no matter how peripheral, because if she just sat still the way Tara was, she’d just absolutely break down and never stop crying.

“Where’s Spike?”

Tara furrowed her brow. They’d all rushed off to the hospital without really taking notice of the vampire who’d fought by their side. “I’m not sure, sweetie.” She glanced out the window. “It’s daytime, he’s probably laying low until dark.”

*****

In fact, Spike was right where they’d left him. Trapped by the rising sun, he cowered in the rubble of the construction site, but he didn’t care that they’d left him for dust. If possible, he’d taken even less notice of them than they had of him. Once he saw Buffy lying there, when it hit him that she’d jumped because he’d failed, the rest of the world faded into background noise.

The wave of pain hit him as though he’d run full speed into a brick wall – which, in a sense, he had. But the physical beating he’d taken was nothing compared to the searing realization that Buffy was dead.

Every so often it would hit him again and his suffering would be renewed, raw, fresh, his chest tightening, his head pounding, his muscles seizing up until he lost control over his limbs. His throat constricted and his eyes burned as his grief sought release. He sat there, hidden in the shadows, and sobbed until there was nothing left, until he was utterly empty. More than once, he considered ending it, walking into the light and letting the sunshine crumble his battered body to ashes. He might have done it, too, in those first few hours, except that he lacked the strength or the coordination to stand.

But at some point during the day, he remembered what she’d said to him.

What she asked him to do.

Protect her sister, until the end of the world. Well, the world hadn’t ended, had it? _Thanks to **her** sacrifice_ , a nagging voice in his head pointed out, and he fought a hard-won battle to stop himself from descending back into despair at the thought. He couldn’t sit here and wallow in his misery until the shadows shifted and the sun claimed him. Whether her death was his fault or not, he’d made a promise, and that meant he still had a job to do.

*****

Dawn was released from the hospital later the same day, her injuries bandaged but not deemed serious. Anya was being kept overnight for observation because of the concussion, so of course Xander insisted on staying with her, completely disregarding the nurses who tried to tell him visiting hours were over.

With Willow in Los Angeles, that left Giles and Tara to care for a teenager who suddenly found herself alone in the world. They considered trying to contact her father, but they both remembered the utter lack of concern Hank Summers had shown for his daughters when Joyce died. It was unlikely he’d be any more helpful now.

After some disagreement – all conducted in hushed tones so that Dawn wouldn’t overhear and feel unwanted, even though she did anyway – both Tara and Giles decided to stay at the Summers house that first night, with assurances that it was only a temporary arrangement. Neither one knew what the permanent solution would be, but with Buffy’s loss still weighing heavily on them, the matter of Dawn’s guardianship could wait a few days. Surely Social Services could give them until after the funeral to make the appropriate arrangements.

Dawn cringed at that word. _Arrangements._ A feeble euphemism for turning her entire world upside down. Funeral arrangements that meant burying the only family she really had. Custody arrangements that meant she’d probably be taken away from the only people who still cared about her and placed in a foster home if her dad couldn’t be persuaded to actually behave like a father. School arrangements that meant she’d have to make up the work she’d missed because of the Glory thing – and all the work she was going to miss, since she wasn’t about to go back to school _now_. She wasn’t exactly relishing the idea of summer school, but she didn’t have much choice in the matter.

Then, of course, there was the pressing question of the moment – sleeping arrangements. It was funny, in a macabre sort of way, that there were three bedrooms in the house, but Tara and Giles felt uncomfortable using them because two of them belonged to dead people. In the end, Giles slept in Joyce’s room while Tara took the couch.

Dawn lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to make out the places where she used to have those glow-in-the-dark stars and the phosphorescent glue had left a residue. When that failed to occupy her mind, she tried counting sheep but lost count before she ever felt tired. She tossed and turned, her bandages itching and her legs getting tangled in the sheet, which she finally kicked off when the sweat from the hot summer night made her thin cotton pajamas stick to her body.

Her breath caught in her throat and she felt her chest constrict. She flopped over to bury her face in the pillow, tried to work herself up to a sob, but she couldn’t cry, either. The tears dried up before they ever fell from her eyelids.

She hadn’t cried all day. Everyone told her how brave she was, except she didn’t feel brave. She felt empty. And alone.

Listening to the crickets chirp outside her window, she was sure she heard a noise in Buffy’s room. She slipped out of bed and padded into the hallway. Peering into her sister’s bedroom, she recognized the shadow-cloaked figure by the bedside table.

“Spike?”

Her voice was barely a whisper, but his vampire hearing would catch the sound. He looked up, but didn’t seem able to focus on her before his gaze started to drift around the room. His white-blond hair gleamed in the moonlight and his leather duster hung limply off his hunched shoulders, making him look smaller than usual.

“How did you get in?” Dawn crept into the room.

“Climbed through the window.”

“No, I mean, how did - Willow did that de-invite spell.”

“Oh.” He paused, eyes fixed on his hands, which were fiddling with something he’d picked up. “Your sister let me in. Last night.”

She watched as he set down the object – a small, antique porcelain elephant her mother had given Buffy for Christmas one year; Dawn had a matching giraffe on her dresser – and gingerly ran his fingers over a framed picture on the night table. It was a photo of Buffy, Willow, and Xander and, judging by the painfully mid-90s clothes and hairstyles, Dawn guessed it had been taken right after they moved to Sunnydale.

“She was just a girl,” Spike said, looking at the picture. “First time I saw her, she was just a girl.” He glanced in Dawn’s direction. “Promised to kill her then. Would have, too, if your mum hadn’t gotten the better of me.” He turned his lips up into a smile, but the sentiment never reached his eyes. Dawn longed to see their usual twinkle – a sign, no matter how small, that things would be all right again someday. But his eyes remained dull, as if light were no longer reflected in them, but drawn in as to a black hole. They seemed more gray than blue, reminding her of the cloudy sky that had descended on her life since that morning.

“She was a decent lady, your mum,” Spike continued, because even the still-painful topic of Joyce was less gut-wrenching than the thing that was on both their minds. “She raised good girls.” He reached out and pulled Dawn’s head to his chest, more for his comfort, probably, than hers. “You’re a good girl, Niblet.”

Dawn breathed in his familiar scent, all cigarettes and leather and the musty smell that came from living in a crypt. She ached for him to say something real, to rip the band-aid off and talk about Buffy, instead of this talking without really saying anything, this meaningless babble to fill the silence and occupy their thoughts so they wouldn’t have to dwell on the huge gaping hole that Buffy had left in both of them.

He released her and took a good look at her for the first time since she’d come in the room. “You all right, sweet bit? Not hurt too bad, right?”

She shook her head. “Just –” She hiccupped. “Just shallow cuts.” She stiffened at the phrase, remembering the singsong way Doc had sliced her with his knife.

Spike didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were vacant again, darting around Buffy’s room.

Watching him, so lost surrounded by Buffy’s possessions, Dawn felt the swirl of emotions that seemed to radiate off him. Being with him was more intense than anyone else who’d hovered around her all day, fretting and fussing as if she were fragile, all the while keeping themselves composed and detached – a behavior she knew well from watching her sister. But Spike was raw and broken, as though the wounds were too deep to mask or hide. It was the way she knew she should feel, but seemed so out of reach.

She felt a gnawing in her chest as she looked at him, this vampire that she’d idolized and adored. This swaggering, sarcastic, cocksure vampire who was so completely decimated by her sister’s death she almost didn’t recognize him. She reached out one hand to touch him – for comfort, reassurance, she wasn’t sure – and as her fingers brushed his worn leather sleeve, he turned to her. His eyes finally met hers and she saw them cloud over with pain as a hundred different emotions flashed across his face, all of them heart-wrenching.

Dawn collapsed on the floor with a choking sob. Spike was by her side in an instant, her cry seeming to snap him out of the daze he’d been in. It hit him all over again, the guilt soulless vampires weren’t supposed to feel, sharp as a knife in his chest. He held her as all the tears that until now she’d been unable to cry came flooding out, clinging desperately to her, the only piece of Buffy he had left. He rested his cheek against the crown of her head, his own tears dripping silently down his face, and he stroked her hair until she cried herself to sleep.

And when Tara came upstairs the next morning to check on Dawn, that was how she found them, curled up asleep on the floor of Buffy’s bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

“I can’t stay long,” Willow told the gang in L.A. “I should get back and help Giles with the… arrangements.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word funeral. “But I wanted to let you know the, uh… the service is Friday, if any of you want to go.”

“Yes, of course,” Cordelia said.

“I should like to go as well,” Wesley added.

“I can drive us up there,” Angel said. “I know I can’t go to the funeral, but –”

“Oh! You can!” Willow brightened a little as she was finally able to deliver good news. “We’re having it after sunset, you know, for the sunlight-challenged.”

Angel’s eyes softened with gratitude, but he shook his head. “You shouldn’t do that, just for me.”

Willow hesitated. “It’s not just for you.”

“How many vampires are you expecting to show at the Slayer’s funeral?”

Willow gave him an awkward half-smile. “Including you… two.” When Angel looked puzzled, she added, “Spike.”

*****

Angel sighed. They’d only just gotten back, and already they were leaving again. He felt sick inside, and he wondered if a part of him had died with Buffy. Was that too melodramatic? Maybe, but a hundred years of honing his brooding skills meant he was pretty good at internalizing suffering.

“Stop it,” Cordelia warned him, shaking him out of his thoughts.

Angel squinted at her. “Huh?”

“I know in that warped little head of yours, you’re coming up with ways this is your fault. It’s not.”

“I wasn’t,” Angel protested, but his tone was low and unconvincing.

“Angel.”

“I was just… thinking about her, that’s all.”

“Well, think in the car,” Cordy said. “Or we’re never going to make it before sunrise.” She ushered him towards the door where Wesley and Willow were waiting to leave.

“Gunn?” Angel looked to his friend, who was doing his best to comfort a wide-eyed and shell-shocked Fred. The poor girl hadn’t seen her home dimension in five years and this wasn’t exactly the best start.

“I’ll hold down the fort,” Gunn said.

“Thanks,” Angel replied. “And make sure Fred gets reacquainted with the world,” he added, throwing a slight smile her way. “Get her some tacos.”

“Will do,” said Gunn. “Listen, bro, I never met this girl of yours. But I know how much she means to you. I’m sorry, man.” He put a hand on Angel’s shoulder.

“Thanks.”

The drive to Sunnydale was mostly silent, with Angel staring straight ahead and gripping the steering wheel as if it might fly out of his hands at any moment. The others gazed out the windows, lost in their own thoughts.

Angel pulled over just before dawn, ceding the driver’s seat to Wesley and huddling under a blanket in the backseat next to Willow. Wesley sighed as he pulled back into traffic. He thought back over the past year, of the way Angel had reacted to Darla’s return and eventual turning, and he shuddered. Darla had been merely a companion, albeit for a hundred and fifty years. But Buffy – she was Angel’s one and only love. Wesley couldn’t even imagine what losing her would do to Angel.

*****

Willow eased open the door to Buffy’s house, followed by the others. “Guys? I’m back.”

It might have been awkward at any other time, a reunion such as this one. There was certainly enough bad blood and mistrust between certain Scoobies and the various members of Angel Investigations, but they greeted each other with solemn gestures that seemed to form a tacit agreement to put aside their misgivings in order to mourn the fallen Slayer.

Spike came down the stairs and raised his eyebrows at the new arrivals. He didn’t have the energy to face off with Angel at the moment. Ignoring them all for the time being, he looked to Tara.

“Dawn’s asleep,” he said. In the absence of anyone else, Tara had stepped into the motherly role, and that suited Spike just fine. Of all of them, she was the one he trusted most. “Poor bit was up all night, she was.”

“Poor Dawnie,” Willow said, forcing him to acknowledge the others.

“Spike.” Angel’s eyes narrowed and his grip tightened around the blanket he’d used for cover from the sun.

Spike was surprised to find that the pain of Buffy’s death dulled even his seething hatred of his grandsire. “Really not in the mood for fisticuffs,” he said, the tiredness evident in his voice, “so you can save the fighting and the righteous indignation for another day.”

Even having been warned, it was still a shock for Angel, seeing Spike, of all people, walking around Buffy’s house like he lived there, and caring for Buffy’s little sister. As soon as Spike stalked off into the kitchen, Angel turned to Giles. He had always been reasonable, with a healthy level of distrust for vampires, even Angel – perhaps particularly Angel, because of Buffy’s utter inability to be objective where her vampire lover was concerned.

“I don’t suppose you were expecting that.” Giles said.

“Willow mentioned it.” Angel shook his head. “I just don’t understand what he’s doing here.”

Giles glanced in the direction Spike had taken. “He may have developed… feelings for Buffy. And, however inappropriate they may be, he did help us in the end.”

“He’s developed _feelings_ for – oh, that is so typical,” said Angel. Spike was like the most annoying little brother on the planet, always touching his stuff, always wanting what Angel had, always trying to one-up him. “That is so _typical_ Spike.”

“It is?” Anya asked. “’Cause we all thought it was pretty strange.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “He’s never happier than when he’s taking something away from me.”

“You’re a bleeding moron.” Spike came back in the living room and looked at Angel. “I mean it, you are the most idiotic, self-absorbed –” He broke off and composed himself. “I love her, and it has _nothing_ to do with you. It’s about her. It’s got bugger-all to do with you, Angelus.”

Angel’s nostrils flared at the name. “Is that so, _William_?”

“Who do you think you are, coming back here and saying what’s what? You weren’t here when she died. Only two people who went pitching off that tower, and neither one of ’em was you.” Spike grabbed Angel’s blanket right out of his hands and stormed out of the house, his anger bubbling up from under the surface. How dare he – how _dare_ Angel suggest he didn’t really love Buffy? What did the pillock know about it anyway? He ran off and abandoned her, showed how much _he_ loved Buffy.

Spike climbed down into the sewer and pulled the steaming blanket off. He looked at it for a moment, then remembered it belonged to Angel and threw it on a pile of garbage. A rat scuttled across his path and he kicked at it, sending it scurrying back into the shadows. It wasn’t fair. At least Angel’d had the chance to be with Buffy before she died. And the stupid git had let her go. Spike would’ve given both arms for the chance to have what Angel had had. But now he’d never get that chance.

*****

Back at the house, one by one the Scoobies recovered from their stunned silence and went back to whatever they’d been doing before the arrival of the Los Angeles contingent. Cordelia sat down in the living room, watching them move about with deliberate urgency. Keeping busy seemed to be the order of the day, as if that would make it easier for them to not think about Buffy.

In an effort to be hospitable, Willow offered her something to eat or drink, and Cordelia’s infallible eye for fashion noticed that she had caked on too much make-up in a futile attempt to hide the dark circles and red-rimmed eyes that let on she’d been crying all night instead of sleeping. It didn’t seem to cut down on the nervous energy, though, and she pattered around baking, cleaning, any task she could find.

Giles walked around like a robot, arranging for a headstone and casket with all the emotion one would put into making a grocery list. Cordy supposed it was very British of him to be detached. Maybe he’d been ready for it – after all, as a Watcher, he knew what being a Slayer would mean. A life that was short, painful, and violent, and a death to match. But anyone could see Giles had loved Buffy like a daughter. He was as prepared for losing Buffy as any parent was to lose their child, and he’d retreated into some emotional vacuum that allowed him to continue with the necessities the situation demanded.

Cordelia couldn’t really blame them for seeming out of sorts. She could barely process it herself, and she hadn’t seen Buffy in two years. In all the time they’d known each other, Buffy had been a constant – invincible, or so it had seemed. No matter what apocalypse came her way, she always managed, she always saved the day. It was almost impossible for Cordy to accept that she was really dead, that there was something out there that Buffy couldn’t defeat. It made the world a little bit scarier place.

She surprised herself by not begrudging Xander the comfort he sought from that woman who was obviously his girlfriend. She looked familiar, someone from high school, maybe. It didn’t matter anyway. The old Cordelia would have wracked her brain to remember some terrible faux pas that she could lord over the other woman, just to feel superior. But Cordelia had changed, and besides, this hardly seemed like the time for fits of petty jealousy.

She noticed the way Angel was still glaring after Spike and made a mental note to remind him of that thing about petty jealousy, too.  



	3. Chapter 3

The stab wound in his back still smarting, Spike put himself between Dawn and Doc. If he could just protect her long enough, the window of opportunity for the ritual would pass.

“You don't come near the girl, Doc.”

Doc peered at him with curiosity. “I don't smell a soul anywhere on you. Why do you even care?”

“I made a promise to a lady.”

“Oh?” The demon's long tongue shot out from his mouth toward Spike. Spike ducked aside, and Doc dropped to his knees and pulled Spike's legs out from under him. They grappled a bit and when they got to their feet, Doc was pinning Spike’s arms behind him.

“Then I'll send the lady your regrets,” said Doc.

Spike set his jaw. “You won’t have to.” He ripped his arms from Doc’s grasp and teetered on the edge for a moment before losing his balance. Just before he fell, Spike grabbed hold of the demon and pulled him off the platform along with him.

The two of them wrestled as they plummeted to the ground. Spike managed to position himself on top just before they hit the ground, with Doc breaking his fall.

Shaking off the impact, Spike saw Doc’s large knife lying on the ground next to him. Grabbing it, he swung as hard as he could toward the demon’s neck, decapitating him swiftly. He stood up and dropped the knife, then turned toward the tower.

Buffy was descending the stairs, a shaken but unharmed Dawn at her side. Spike rushed to them and scooped them both into his arms. The others gathered around, fussing over Dawn. Spike found himself gazing into Buffy’s glittering eyes, and everyone else faded away.

“You saved her.” A single tear ran down her face. She stroked his cheek, her fingers light on his skin.

“I promised, didn’t I?” he replied, taking her into his arms. He dipped his head and she met him in a gentle kiss.

Spike’s eyes opened and he gasped, gulping down unnecessary air. He sat up in bed and ran his hands through his hair, trying to shake off the feelings the dream stirred up. His hands slid down from his hair to cover his face, contorted with pain. His body shook with sobs, curled into the fetal position to protect himself from the truth.

Every night, the dream was the same. Oh, the details changed, of course. Sometimes, he threw the demon off the platform and carried Dawn down to a waiting Buffy. Sometimes he got thrown off, but managed to grab hold of something and pull himself back up in time to save Dawn. Once, he actually caught Buffy when she fell. Even though he knew she’d have been killed long before she hit the ground, in his dream she landed safe in his arms.

He dreamed it a dozen different ways, but the theme always remained the same. He saved her. He kept his promise. And she was alive.

*****

It was the little things, Tara knew.

The little things they hadn’t even noticed until they were gone, that was when they would miss her. When they’d come to a gap in their lives, even the tiniest little detail, and realize that Buffy used to be there. It was the same way when Tara’s mother died.

Like on Thursday night, when Giles had cooked a healthy, balanced meal, instead of the usual ritual of pizza and mountains of junk food that Buffy and Dawn usually consumed while watching all of NBC’s must-see TV line-up before Buffy went out for a quick patrol.

Or, with the weekend looming, when they were all painfully aware that on any other weekend, they’d be planning nights at the Bronze or bowling or the movies, with Buffy chiming in, quipping about Anya’s dancing and Xander’s bowling skills. But Buffy wouldn’t be there, and they wouldn’t be able to bring themselves to have fun without her.

They didn’t have many routines, with life as crazy as it was, especially since Glory had entered the picture. They’d been running for their lives too often to maintain habits. But some things were sacrosanct, and when those things happened, they felt her loss most deeply.

The most prominent of these were the Scooby meetings. It was more than a little disconcerting when Giles called that first meeting, the night of Buffy’s funeral, but it was a pattern so ingrained that not even the loss of their leader could disrupt the order of things. And so, after the service, when Angel, Cordelia, and Wesley had gone to Giles’ apartment to give them space, the others gathered in the Summers living room.

“I know you’re all grieving for Buffy,” said Giles, “but there are some practical matters to discuss, and I felt it my duty to broach the subject.”

“Practical matters?” Tara repeated.

“Niblet, maybe you best go on up to bed.” Spike tapped Dawn on the shoulder where she sat on the floor at his feet.

“No!” Dawn jumped up and whirled to face him. “If you’re gonna talk about Buffy, I wanna be here.”

“Dawn,” Spike warned.

“She’s my sister!” Catching herself, she amended the statement. “Was.”

At the tremble in her voice, Spike softened. He got up from his chair and wrapped his arms around her. “Is, pet. Always will be.”

“Let her stay, Spike,” Giles said. Spike relented and resettled himself in the chair, giving Dawn a squeeze on the shoulder as she resumed her position by his feet.

“Now that Buffy is… gone,” Giles continued, addressing the group again, “we are faced with the problem of an unguarded Hellmouth.”

The Scoobies shifted uncomfortably and glanced at one another. “Well, we can keep it together,” said Tara, trying to be optimistic. “For a little while anyway, until the new Slayer is called.”

“Yes, Giles,” Anya said. “When is the new Slayer going to show up?”

Xander, Willow, and Giles exchanged worried looks.

“There is no new Slayer,” Giles said.

“What d’you mean?” Spike demanded. “One Slayer dies, new one rises, right? Isn’t that how it works?”

“Guess you would know,” Xander muttered under his breath.

Spike growled. “Shut the hell up, you bleeding –”

“Please!” Giles said, temporarily halting the escalating fight. “Spike is technically correct, but…”

“Buffy died once before,” Willow finished for him.

Giles nodded. “Indeed she did. And so the Slayer line continued, even though Buffy was resuscitated.” He glanced around the room. “Faith is the Slayer now. Only her death will bring about a new Chosen One.”

“But Faith’s in prison,” said Dawn.

“So we’re stuck on a Hellmouth with no Slayer,” Anya concluded.

“Precisely.” Giles took off his glasses and began to clean them, universally accepted among the Scoobies as a bad sign.

Xander slapped his thigh resolutely. “We’ll have to patrol.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “No, _you’ll_ –” he glanced around at each of them – “have to get out of Dodge. Once word gets out there’s no Slayer –”

“What, and leave Sunnydale to be overrun with demons?” Xander shot back. “I don’t think –”

“It won’t be safe for you here!” Spike leapt out of his chair and started to pace. “All the minions of hell will come flocking to this town. How long do you think you can hold them back?” He stared at Xander until the boy flinched. “You’re not Buffy! You’re not junior Slayers. You’re children, and you’re going to get yourselves killed. Soon as they find out the Slayer’s gone, they’ll –”

“Then they don’t find out.”

Six pairs of eyes turned to Willow.

“How do we keep it a secret?” Anya asked. “Buffy’s dead.” There was visible flinching from the others at her candor.

Willow started to look more determined as she fleshed out the plan in her mind. “We just have to convince them that Buffy’s still out and patrolling.”

“How?” Xander asked.

“The Buffybot.”

“No.” Spike’s refusal was quiet but firm.

“I can fix it,” Willow persisted. “We all act as if Buffy’s still alive and –”

“NO!” Spike roared. This time, all eyes were on him.

“I won’t do it.” He’d paced his way to the doorway and he stood like a sentry, arms folded across his chest. “Look, I can help you out, patrol, take out demons, whatever you like. But not with that… thing.” He visibly suppressed a shudder at the thought of the Buffybot.

“So, it’s good enough to have sex with but not to –”

“Xander, please,” Giles said, cutting him off before he further angered Spike. “I don’t like it either, Spike, but it may be the only way to keep Sunnydale from –”

“Then do it without me. I won’t be part of – part of… It’s not real.” Spike stormed out of the house, leaving the others in stunned silence.  



	4. Chapter 4

Xander and Willow met at the entrance to the graveyard, falling into step next to one another. It felt strange to be walking through a cemetery in the daytime, but even stranger to be there without Buffy.

“How’s Anya doing?” asked Willow.

“Oh, you know. She complains a lot about the frailties of the human body, but she’ll be okay.” Xander allowed himself a tiny grin. “I just keep feeding her those painkillers the doctor prescribed.”

Willow nodded. “Good.”

“How’s Tara?”

“Good,” Willow repeated. “She’s – she still has the nightmares, but it seems like she’s all there, you know? She’s Tara.” She looked at him, and Xander could see the mixture of hope and worry and love she had for Tara written all over her face.

“She seemed to be back to normal,” he said. “The past few days.”

“Yeah.” Willow sighed. “I don’t – I don’t think Glory did any permanent damage.”

She fell silent as they stopped in front of the freshly covered grave. They were in the farthest corner of the cemetery, a secluded area amidst the trees, where no one would think to look for a headstone.

Willow bent down and placed a bouquet of lilies next to the stone. Her face contorted with grief and she turned into Xander’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her. Her tears left a wet stain on his shirt, and she gasped for air through her sobs.

He pressed his cheek against her hair, letting his own silent tears fall, and whispered, “Oh, Buffy,” his voice hoarse with grief.

*****

Spike crept up from the basement once the sounds of humans bustling about upstairs had died down. He couldn’t stand all the bloody people around – especially not Angel and his crew – but his crypt was just unbearable. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her face, juxtaposed with the memory of her falling, and now with the image of her grave where they’d all gathered the night before, muttering useless platitudes that were meant to comfort but didn’t.

For the first time he could remember since becoming a vampire, the idea of living in a crypt, of sleeping among the dead, made him sick. What did it matter? After all, he was dead, too, wasn’t he? Except he wasn’t, really. Not dead like she was dead. Being in his crypt among all the coffins and the corpses reminded him of that, so he’d snuck back into the house in the wee hours of the morning and curled into a corner on the floor of the basement. His sleep wasn’t much better there, but finally pure exhaustion overtook him, and he passed into a fitful slumber.

He awoke in the afternoon to find most of the houseguests getting ready to leave. Once it seemed as though everyone had cleared out, he made his way upstairs to the kitchen. He’d completely lost his appetite for blood – not that he was likely to find any in the fridge anyway – but nibbling on some regular food would at least give him something to do. Something to take his mind off things.

Spike had just started pawing through the refrigerator when he heard a snuffling sound coming from the living room. Upon investigation, he found Dawn curled up on the sofa, all alone. He wondered where the Scoobies had gone. Surely they’d think to leave someone here with the girl.

“Niblet?”

She looked up at him and hastily wiped the back of her hand across her face, as though she could hide the fact that she’d been crying.

“You - you all right?”

It was a stupid question; he knew that before the words left his lips. But what else was there to say, really?

Dawn met his eyes momentarily before she sighed and averted her gaze. Just when he thought she wasn’t going to respond, she blurted out, “I hated her so much when we moved to Sunnydale.” Spike furrowed his brow and he moved to sit next to her on the sofa. “I had to leave all my friends. It was her fault. If she hadn’t burned down the stupid school… I hated her so much.” Then, her expression changed as realization dawned. “But I guess I really didn’t, did I? Because I didn’t really exist then.”

“See? No use fretting then, eh, pet?”

“But I hated her plenty of times after that, when I did exist.”

“No, you didn’t. May’ve felt like you hated each other. But deep down, you always loved her.” Spike wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“And she loved you. Don’t ever forget that.”

Dawn was silent for a moment, then looked up at him. “Spike? She loved you, too.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed on her. “Don’t say that, Niblet.”

“But –”

“Won’t do to hold onto false memories, now, will it?”

“I know she did, even if she didn’t know it. Or she would have, if she’d let herself.”

Spike looked away, intently studying the fireplace mantle so she wouldn’t see the tears well up in his eyes.

*****

Giles eased open the door to the training room at the back of the Magic Box. Angel followed him inside and wandered around a bit, taking it in. Weapons hanging on the wall, the chest where the more functional and less decorative weapons were stored, the training equipment scattered around the room – punching bag, straw dummy, puffy Xander suit, all lying as Buffy had left them over a week ago.

“This is – this is nice,” said Angel.

“Thank you.”

“I bet she really liked it here.”

“Yes. I – I believe so.” Giles paused. “I don’t know what we’ll do with it now. Possibly use it for storage or –” He broke off, suddenly realizing that getting rid of the training room meant Buffy was really gone.

Angel was silent. He’d never been good at this kind of thing. He was a brooder, an expert in wallowing in guilt and grief. Comfort seemed almost a foreign concept to him. He glanced over at Giles and nodded when their eyes met.

Giles nodded in response, unspoken acknowledgment of something neither of them quite understood.

*****

Xander stroked Willow’s hair in a slow, soothing rhythm. The crying noises coming from his shirt had quieted. “Hey, Will?” he asked.

She pulled her head out of his chest and looked up at him.

“Do you really think you can fix the Buffybot?”

Willow nodded. “Sure. I just need to reattach her head, fix some of the wiring. She should be good as new.”

“Please tell me you’re gonna reprogram it, right?” Xander suppressed a shudder. “I don’t think I could stand watching Buffy – even a robot Buffy – worshipping Spike the sex god all the time.”

“I’ll do my best.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “I don’t think he wants that, either.”

“Who, Spike? Of course he wants his little sex-Buffy. That’s what he had her built for, remember?”

Willow paused for a moment before answering. “It’s different now, Xander.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze falling on the grave at their feet. “Everything is different now.”

*****

“It’s my fault,” Dawn said.

“Bollocks.”

She looked at him, her eyes too deadly serious for a teenager. “It is. It should have been me. I was supposed to die.”

Spike shook his head. “You’re singing my song now, pet.”

Dawn’s expression lost some of its ferocity as she tilted her head, a gesture she’d learned from him. “What do you mean?”

“I promised your sister I’d take care of you. If I’da done that, even if I didn’t make it, she wouldn’t have had to jump. This was supposed to be – I was gonna go out in a blaze of, well…” He grinned wryly at the pun. “My redemption, of sorts. Spent all that time killing people, now I get to die saving the world.”

Dawn thought about that for a minute. “You won’t really leave us, will you? If they decide to use the Buffybot?”

“I dunno, pet. I don’t think I could stand it, looking at it every day, knowing it wasn’t her.”

“But you’ll stay, right? For me?”

Deep down he knew, ultimately, he would stay. Because he’d made a promise to protect Dawn, and he couldn’t very well do that if he was running from his memories, could he? Maybe if Willow could reprogram the bot so it wasn’t so obsessed with him, it might not be so bad.

Who was he kidding? It would be hell. Absolute, living hell. But he’d do it, for her.

Spike glanced out the window, although he could have sensed the sunset even if he were underground. “Nearing sundown now, Bit. Best be going to ward off the beasties.”

Dawn grasped his hand as he got up. “Spike?” She looked up at him with child-like eyes. “Don’t leave. Please?”

He looked down at her small hand clutching his, and he knew she wasn’t talking about right now. He nodded almost imperceptibly and gave her hand a squeeze before pulling away and heading out the door.

*****

“Can I ask you something?” Angel put back the sword he’d been fiddling with and turned to Giles. “I know you never really liked me, but… do you think I did the right thing? Leaving her?”

“Do you?”

Angel looked away. He hated to admit it, but Spike’s accusation had been eating away at him for the past few days. “I did. But I can’t help but think, if I’d been here, I could’ve helped.”

“There’s no possible way to know.”

“I know that.” He sighed. “I just wanted her to have a normal life.”

“I think we both forgot that wasn’t possible.”

Angel looked back at him, surprised.

“I keep feeling as though I didn’t do my job,” said Giles. “I know this is how it always happens. Slayers rarely outlive their Watchers, but I… became attached, I suppose. And I lost sight of the way things would have to be. She would never have had a normal life.”

It was a difficult truth for both of them. They’d embraced the notion that if they could just do the right thing, they could change Buffy’s fate. Giles had resisted against everything his Watcher’s training had taught him, he’d gotten too close, and he’d thought that he could keep her alive. He’d bitterly rejected the idea that someday he’d have to sacrifice his Slayer.

Angel, for his part, had tried to be self-sacrificing, as if by removing himself from her life she would be free of the complications he brought. But he could never rid her of the vampires or her duty to slay them, and he realized how futile his efforts had been, however motivated by love they were. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Maybe he should have stayed, so Buffy could have had her lover by her side. Even if it was against their nature and better judgment, they could have been together for the brief time she had left.

“I know I was the one who left,” Angel said, “but I guess I always thought, maybe, someday…”

Giles shook his head. “Slayers don’t have the luxury of ‘someday.’”

*****

Xander glanced up at the sky. The last streaks of orange were fading into twilight as the sun slipped below the horizon.

“It’s getting dark, Will. We should go soon.” They didn’t want to be caught in the cemetery after nightfall. They hadn’t even brought stakes – they didn’t expect to stay this long, but grief didn’t seem to pay attention to the clock.

Willow knelt by the grave, running her fingers lightly over the dirt. “Goodbye, Buffy.” She fussed with the flowers for a minute, until Xander’s gentle tug prompted her to rise. They made their way back to the entrance, where Xander’s car was parked.

*****

Spike made his way to a different cemetery gate, a recent memory running through his head. Tara had just been brain-sucked, and Buffy foolishly thought a simple conversation would convince Red not to rush off looking for vengeance.

 _I told Willow it would be like suicide,_ she’d said to him.

 _I’d do it,_ he’d replied. _Right person, person I loved. I’d do it._

He certainly had a reason now. The right person. The only person, except maybe the Niblet. He’d die a thousand horrible deaths – the worst ways he could think of and more – if it meant bringing her back. Even if it wouldn’t, even if it was just payback. He was starting to understand why that demon girl of Xander’s had gotten so much business in her day.

The only problem was there was no one to fight. Glory was gone. He could kill demons until the end of time, but it wouldn’t give him the satisfaction he needed. For a creature who thrived on violence, there was no way to avenge her death.

All he could do now was fulfill her last wish. Take care of Dawn. He’d patrol with the Scoobies, and even that bloody bot if he had to. That would have to be enough.

It was all there was.

It didn’t seem like it could hold the depth of the grief he needed to pour into it in order to keep himself going. It didn’t seem like there would ever be enough to fill the empty void she had left. It didn’t seem like it would ever stop hurting.

Spike stopped at Buffy’s grave and noted the flowers placed carefully by the headstone. No one was around – her friends, of all people, knew better than to visit the cemetery at night. He crouched next to the grave, running his fingers over the smooth stone.

He didn’t speak – there were no words to say – but hid his face in his hands and wept.  



End file.
